


Yellow, Red

by rose_griffes



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, hiding from your own feeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 12:52:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17407250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_griffes/pseuds/rose_griffes
Summary: A sort of New Year's celebration...





	Yellow, Red

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Anonymous on tumblr, who correctly guessed which exchange fic I wrote. (And for Turningleaf, who brought up the topic of underwear.) 
> 
> Sorry for the delay. And for the angst.

**31 December 1964  
Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia**

Last year they were in Helsinki and Illya had carefully planned a ‘spontaneous’ celebration for the New Year--to Solo’s teasing amusement, and Gaby’s secret delight. Everything was still so new: living outside the Iron Curtain, working for UNCLE, their motley team of three...

This year they haven’t had time to do any planning. THRUSH has kept all of Waverly’s agents busy the last six months. No time to mourn, even. 

No time for Gaby to think about what a relationship with a KGB agent might cost, which is probably how they’ve gotten this far. One of them would almost certainly have over-thought things and they would never have tumbled over the precipice from almost-kisses and quick glances to this. 

Illya’s chest is warm against her back, his even breaths sifting through her hair. It must be close to midnight, Gaby realizes; the faint noise of the crowd in the _Plaza_ filters through the walls. 

They had chosen rest over festivities. Gaby is still tired enough to not regret that choice, but sleep eludes her. This lowland city is warm and humid. The air conditioning--still something of a novelty to her--cycles on and off, leaving her either too cold or too hot. And the noise it makes when it’s on…

Illya doesn’t seem bothered by it, as worn out as he must be. She would get up and read or drink (or both), but he was on surveillance overnight and then they continued their public act as a newlywed couple during the day. She doesn’t want to risk waking him.

Strange to be lying in a bed in a pitch-black room while a New Year arrives. Illya sleeps through the countdown--the numbers in Spanish sound like nonsense from this distance--but staccato noises from either fireworks or firearms make his breathing shift. 

“It’s nothing, go back to sleep,” Gaby whispers. 

“Midnight?” he asks, sounding far more alert than she would like. 

“Yes.” 

“Frohes neue Jahr,” he says, his voice a low rumble at her back. Well, if he’s awake anyway, enough to wish her a happy New Year in German…

It’s tradition, after all. Gaby rolls around and captures his lips with hers. His arms wrap around her again, one around her shoulders and the other to the small of her back. “S novym godom,” she says. She doesn’t let herself reflect on what it means to say words in Russian, to speak in sweet tones the language that she once hated.

Instead she focuses on the man who kisses her in return, whose callused hands span her back, whose eyelashes brush against her cheek. His fingertips trace the lines of her spine, cool against her overheated skin. The darkness heightens her awareness of his touches, making her shiver in anticipation. 

They’re both already naked: a luxury, and also practical. It’s summer in Santa Cruz, and today’s high temperature was warmer than Berlin at its hottest. When the air conditioner cycle is off the room heats up quickly.

The yellow underwear she bought today--no, yesterday--is scattered around the room, a deliberate display of messiness. “Buena fortuna” was what the saleslady had said in the _mercado_. Surrounded by yellow and red undergarments, the woman tried to explain the meaning of the colors for the New Year. Gaby wasn’t sure she had understood the significance of yellow. Wealth or good luck, or maybe both. The conversation was difficult enough between a lack of English (and German, not that Gaby was going to bring up her native language while using this cover) on the saleswoman’s part, and Gaby’s own lack of Spanish. 

Gaby understood the main idea, well enough to amuse herself by purchasing a pair of yellow satin boxers for her ‘new husband’. 

Red meant love. Less ambiguity there. That wasn’t a topic she would broach with him, not even behind closed doors. 

Illya had snorted in disdain when she gave him the shiny underwear: an excellent achievement of her goal in buying them. Nonetheless she tried to convince him to wear them. She had put on a yellow bra and panties herself, before dinner, but took them off when getting ready for bed. 

Good luck is this: an opportunity to caress and glance in public, to revel in his gloriously nude body in private, and excuse it as being for the cover. As for Illya, if the KGB ever approved of relations with an enemy agent like her, it would be for the job. They have security in their cover story--as much security as she will ever get. 

_Buena fortuna_ at midnight, the first day of the New Year: to skim her fingers along his bare chest, to shudder under his touch. To breath the scent of him, deliciously and dizzyingly familiar. 

Illya’s hands slide lower and lower. His large palms cup her ass, and he echoes what she was thinking. “You are naked,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Very good luck, this.”

Gaby hums in agreement. Illya grasps her hips and turns them both until he is lying on his back, with her straddling his stomach. Arms braced on his shoulders, she lowers her head slowly, still humming, until her nose bumps into his. It’s too dark to see him, but she thinks he is probably trying not to smile. He likes it when she does this. 

(Her memories of that drunken wrestling match in Rome include a dazed glance upward from him as she had sat across his stomach, like she’s doing now. A year and some months ago, she wouldn’t have thought… but that was then.)

Illya leans up a bit and kisses her, then slides his hands up her back, finally twining his fingers in her hair. Tugging gently, he pulls her down that last bit, until she’s lying flat against his chest. 

She sighs against his mouth. Plastered to his chest like this, Gaby feels like she might melt, even with the air conditioner running at the moment. But at the same time, she will keep every scrap of luck, savor every one of these moments that she can grab. 

His chest hairs tickle her breasts, and the slight stubble under his chin scratches as she breathes in his scent: sweat, gun lubricant, _Illya_. 

He slides his hands down her back again. “Come up here,” he says. His cool fingers curve lightly on the backs of her thighs, pushing her upward.

“Bossy,” she tells him. His low chuckle echoes inside her, making her quiver. Well, an obedient wife would certainly heed her husband’s wishes. She clambers upward, carefully straddling his shoulders and then reaching to take hold of the headboard. His breath warms her skin as he nuzzles along the inner crease of her thighs. 

“Stop teasing,” she orders, breathless. Illya uses his hands to finish guiding her into place, and then he works his lips and tongue until Gaby’s thighs start to shake and her hands tremble as she holds onto the headboard. 

His body is a trained weapon: a reflection of his sharp mind and strong will, and he is devastatingly efficient at pleasing her. Sounds tumble from her mouth, maybe in German; Gaby’s not sure. It makes her grateful for once for the rattling of the _verdammt Maschine_ that keeps the room cool and too noisy to bug for anyone who might listen in, even as she melts at his touch. 

And then she doesn’t have any more words--just the tension and release of her body and the thrumming of blood through her veins. 

Gaby keeps herself upright, motivated by not wanting to damage Illya’s magnificent nose. She slowly uncurls her fingers from the headboard and crawls down again, catching her breath.

Twining against his side, Gaby bumps her nose against his again as she breathes in. He wipes his hand across his mouth; even so, the taste of her lingers on his lips and tongue. His kisses turn impatient after a moment, letting her know that he hasn’t taken care of himself while he took care of her.

Gaby almost tells him that he’s a good husband: a careless joke, one that she has made before. But the words catch in her throat. Somehow it cuts too close in this intimate darkness. 

Instead she feels her way in the dark, listens to his breathing change as her hands caress his abdomen and downward, lightly tracing his erection.

“Lucky me,” she says.

**Author's Note:**

> Gaby missed one element for lucky underwear in Bolivia for the New Year: wearing it backwards that evening.
> 
> Also, if you know more about the underwear tradition, feel free to chime in! Because I kept getting conflicting information. Is yellow for luck, wealth, or happiness? Maybe it depends on the South American country.


End file.
